


Person of Interest: Midwest

by SneakyHufflepuff



Category: Person of Interest (TV), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AU, F/M, Mild Sexual Content, Moderate Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 17:00:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SneakyHufflepuff/pseuds/SneakyHufflepuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Machine decides to expand its activities outside the tri-state area. </p><p>Clint Barton travels to St. Louis to protect "Natalie Rushman" and gets more than he bargained for. Is Natalie victim or perpetrator?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Frea_O](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frea_O/gifts).



> Part of the be_compromised Secret Santa. Many thanks to shenshen77 and alphaflyer for the beta.

“All this happened, more or less.” ― Kurt Vonnegut, _Slaughterhouse-Five_ *

*All quotations for this story come from somewhere in the Central St. Louis library.

_Clarkesville, Iowa: Forest_

Clint finished setting up the last target, a beer can on a stump fifty feet away from his new bow. As much as he loved his old bow, Betty, it was getting time for her to retire, which meant trying out a new bow until he found one that fit.

He walked back to where he had set out three potential bows, brown leaves and snow crunching under his boots. Most of the targets he had set up were repurposed food containers from around his apartment, although he was pretty sure this wasn’t what the hippie next door had in mind when she’d told him he needed to recycle.

Which arrow to shoot first? He chose a standard practice arrow, lethal only to squirrels and the extremely unlucky. He could get fancy with explosive and armor piercing arrows later.

Clint’s hands were sweaty as he put the arrow to the string of the first bow. He felt like a little boy on Christmas, or at least what he imagined most little boys felt like on Christmas. His own childhood Christmas’s hadn’t been so great.

He took a deep breath, feeling the cool air of the forest around him. Then the BUZZ of his phone echoed around the stillness. He exhaled, half in surprise, half in frustration. Of course he would get a message _now_.

Clint put down his bow and checked the screen on his battered seven-year-old phone. Only one person had the number for this phone, a person whom he had never even met. That didn’t stop the person from sending him information on a regular basis. This time it was a name and an address: _Natalie Rushman, 367 Cedar Creek Lane, St Louis, MO_. Another name, another person to thwart from doing harm or to protect against it. The anonymous texter never told him which it would be.

It seemed impossible, even now, but ever since a year ago, when he had received a mysterious text reading ‘ _someone needs your help_ ,’ Clint had been saving lives. Not only that, but the mysterious texter paid him for the privilege.

Clint packed up his equipment quickly and neatly, with a care he only otherwise showed to his car. Time to hit the road.

 

_St Louis, Missouri: Central Library_

Natasha pulled her dyed brown hair back from her face to get a closer look at the book she was shelving. It was titled ‘ _Representations of Body Hair in Victorian Literature and Culture._ ' Next to it was a book about fetishes in Victorian London. Someone was writing an interesting thesis, or had a little too much time on their hands.

She knew that many of her colleagues found shelving boring, but she enjoyed the peace. The library she worked at was beautiful, late afternoon light streaming through the high arched windows, modern glass next to well-worn stone and antique stained glass. Quotations lined the walls, a tribute to the books the building housed. It was a world away from her old life, and she appreciated every minute of it.

“See you next week, Natalie,” said her boss, Peter, his handsome blue eyes twinkling with his ever-present cheer.

Natasha checked her watch. Her shift had come and gone without her noticing. “See you then,” she answered, noncommittally.

Peter was a pleasant guy, but Natasha kept him at arms length. Even here, with a new name and a new life, she didn’t want to give anyone a hold over her. What her old employers had done to her friends back home still gave her nightmares.

Natasha gathered her coat and hurried towards the parking lot, eager to avoid the chill in the air and the worst of rush hour traffic. Although she was not hurried enough to ignore a man who seemed to be following her.

The man stayed half a block behind her. At first glance he was unremarkable, average height, hair between brown and blond, but something about him sent her senses to high alert. It could be coincidence. Many commuters came and went following the same paths, but even though he never looked at her she could tell he was attuned to her presence.

She ducked into her car, keeping her movements slow and nonthreatening, like a woman who had never seen a gun, let alone fired one. She pulled out of the parking lot, and drove towards the I-64, like always. The man got into a garish purple car, the exact kind of car that she would never choose to be inconspicuous. She knew some hit men had special cars or weapons they would use, despite their memorability. Those were the ones who usually got caught, but that wouldn’t help her if he killed her first.

The purple car started following hers, staying three cars back. Her instincts had been right: they, or someone they had contracted, had found her. She kept her expression the same, pleasant and non-threatening, but underneath her calm exterior adrenalin began to hum through her veins, as familiar as an old lover.

Natasha tapped her finger on the steering wheel as she decided her next move. If she suddenly drove left, and stayed in the city until she lost her tail, she could go straight to her safe house, the one even her WitSec handler knew nothing about. If she turned right, she would go to ‘Natalie’s’ house, and force a confrontation.

Some part of her had already made the decision before she’d fully processed her options. This time, she didn’t have friends for her enemies to hurt. This time she could wreak destruction without consequences other than her own life. She turned right, making straight for ‘Natalie’s’ house. Located in the white bread suburbs outside St. Louis, it hid more than a few surprises that would make life difficult for her pursuers.


	2. Chapter 2

“In books lies the soul of the whole past time: The articulate audible voice of the past.” - Thomas Carlyle

_St. Louis, Missouri: Streets_

Clint eased in between two cars to make the exit, drawing an ear-jarring honk from the black SUV behind him as the driver was forced to stomp on the brakes. He winced at the noise, but Natalie seemed intent on getting home and didn’t even react to the sound.

Clint was quite proud of his ability to follow her through rush hour traffic. Most of his Black Ops work had involved desert and helicopters or, conversely, urban settings with a lot of walking and public transport. He’d take an honest car chase over covertly tailing someone any day of the week.

Natalie continued driving towards the address his anonymous texter had given him, past a Wal-Mart Clint marked in his memory in case he needed to buy supplies in the near future.

He hadn’t quite figured Natalie out yet. Her driving was precise and aggressive, but she followed road rules absolutely. Google had revealed absolutely nothing about her, which was strange enough, but she could just be one of those types who lived solely in the physical world, with pen and paper instead of Facebook.

Clint sensed that she was hiding something, but she didn’t seem the type to plan a premeditated murder. Some instinct propelled him to treat her as a potential victim, rather than a murderer. Most of the time following his instincts turned out well, but when they didn’t, shit really hit the fan. He hoped this time it was going to be one of the former cases.

Clint decided to take an alternate route, now that he knew where Natalie was going. No need for her to know he was following her. That tended to freak out his protectees.

Natalie’s neighborhood was full of windy roads and eerily similar houses, so Clint spent a good thirty minutes driving around, memorizing the layout. Google Maps was great, but it didn’t substitute for real knowledge. In a car chase, knowing the lay of the land could be the difference between life and death.

It was full night by the time he parked in the shadow between streetlights, his purple car, saved from a scrapyard, almost managing to blend into the darkness.

He opened the trunk of his car and rifled through his things, looking for his black blazer. He figured for a drive-between-the-lines woman like Natalie, his official act was the way to go. Although she was intelligent, and probably wouldn’t believe he was there on government business post five p.m., the blazer might buy him forty more seconds before she slammed the door in his face.

As Clint rehearsed his lines, something heavy crashed into the back of his head. He collapsed to the ground, Natalie’s stockinged legs and sensible black shoes visible over the edge of his shoulder. Then everything faded to black.

 

_New York, New York: Cafe Moscow – Three Years Ago_

Natasha, her red hair tumbling down her shoulders, sipped her tea. It was tasteless on her lips, and she turned to watching the customers who passed through the café. Her book lay limply on the table, a traditional escape that, in this instance, offered no attraction.

A woman and her five-year old daughter passed by her table, the kid wearing worn-out Minnie Mouse ears that spoke to Natasha of a childish stubbornness to wear her favorite item of clothing, damn the consequences. She wondered what it would have been like to be that child, to have gone to Disneyland, to have pretended to be Ariel or Cinderella.

But Natasha had seen too much of the world to lose herself in fantasy. She could picture the back room, what must be happening to James’s body as she sat there and drank tea. They would have started dismembering him by now, for disposal. They had decided he was no good, неприго́ден, a dead man, and there was nothing she had been able to do about it.

She thought back to the earnest FBI agent who had offered her a way out. She had thought that the apathetic system and police forces peppered with corruption was too much of a risk. Had clung to the tattered remnants of her loyalty while she rejected his offer, but she was rapidly re-evaluating her decision.

Natasha took another sip of her tea, and set it down, slightly too hard, sloshing the hot liquid in her cup. It was time. Time to destroy the men that she had long ago ceased thinking of as family.


	3. Chapter 3

“When I enter a library I feel as if almost the dead were present, and I know if I put questions to these books they will answer me with all the faithfulness and fullness which has been left in them by the great men who have left the books with us.” - John Bright

_St. Louis, Missouri: 367 Cedar Creek Lane_

Clint woke up; cursing as icy cold water was poured over his head. Head aching, he quickly took stock of his situation. He was tied to a chair, hands cuffed in front of him. He was also, he noted, stripped down to his singlet and boxers. He’d been in worse situations, but most of those had been in foreign countries.

Water dripped from his hair as he raised his head to see Natalie Rushman standing in front of him. The innocent and mousy-haired librarian was now cold-eyed, her mouth drawn in a thin line. The bookshelves behind her were covered with volumes of all shapes and sizes, and would also serve as a soundproofing if she chose to torture information out of him.

“Well, sweetheart, if I knew this was a wet-shirt competition, I would have prepared for the occasion,” Clint said, gauging Natalie’s expression as he spoke.

She raised an eyebrow in surprise at his casual demeanor, but her eyes remained cold. “Who are you?”

“Just a stranger, passing through.” Clint shrugged as best he could, hampered as he was by the rope and handcuffs.

Natalie calmly pulled Clint’s own handgun from the back pocket of her jeans and pointed it at him. The easy way she handled the gun told him she knew how to use it, the steadiness of her hands that she wouldn’t hesitate to use it on him.

“Nice strangers don’t usually carry half an armory in their car trunks.”

Clint’s eyes widened as he realized how close he was to death. He might have guessed wrong about who was the victim and who was the perpetrator. Damn his instincts. He should have remembered not to trust them when a beautiful woman was involved.

“Shit. Look lady, I’m just here to help. You’re in danger.”

“Oh, really?” Natalie raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“I know it sounds strange, but I help people who are in trouble.” He paused; this part was often a hard sell. “I think someone is trying to kill you.”

Her laughter cut off whatever else he could say.

“I know people are trying to kill me. The question is, how do you?”

Clint’s eyes widened at her words. She was different from the people he usually saved. But Clint wouldn’t be alive if he couldn’t roll with surprises.

“I work for someone who tells me when people are in danger. I get a name, and an address. Yesterday I received the name Natalie Rushman and the address to your lovely…” he looked around the room, taking in the comfy chairs and Persian rug, “… house.”

Natalie, neither the emotionless woman who had pointed a gun at him a moment ago nor the librarian, but someone else altogether -- someone Clint thought was probably more dangerous than either -- put the gun into her back pocket.

“It’s an original story, I’ll give you that. Whom should I call to confirm it?” she asked.

Clint breathed a little easier now the gun was put away.

“Well, I don’t exactly know who the person that texts me is, but I can give you the numbers of a couple of the other people I’ve saved.”

The ones who were grateful to him, that is. He had a knack for pissing people off, even as he saved their lives.

Natalie looked at him, wheels turning behind her eyes, and he did his best to look innocent and harmless.

The door to the room crashed open and interrupted their standoff. Two men spilled through, automatic weapons in their hands.

Clint rocked his chair to the side, and fell with his left shoulder hitting the ground hard enough to bruise. He struggled, trying to loosen his bonds, but they were too well tied. As it was, he couldn’t do anything but watch what was about to unfold.

Natalie already had his gun out and pointed at the first man, who was still standing at the doorway. She shot and he went down, blood bubbling from a hole in his neck. The second man was faster, and unleashed a spray of bullets toward Natalie, each bullet tearing a hole in the beautiful rug as she rolled behind an armchair for protection.

The spray of bullets followed her, and Clint saw a look of ferocious concentration before she put three controlled shots through the back of the chair, and into the second man’s leg. He fell, dropping his weapon. That time was all Natalie needed. She jumped over the chair, lightning fast, and kicked the gun further away from her assailant’s hands.

The man put his hands in the air, surrendering. Clint noticed faded tattoos on his arms that indicated he was part of the New York Russian mob. What was he doing in Missouri?

Natalie spoke angrily in rapid fire Russian, the man responded likewise. Obviously the man said something that wasn’t to her liking. She shot him in the kneecap without blinking.

“Natalia, please,” the man begged. He continued to babble in Russian. Clint didn’t know the language, but he knew what it sounded like when a man begged for his life.

“Did you show mercy to James?” she asked, not even letting him reply before burying the last bullet in the chamber into his skull.

She turned to Clint, who lay on the floor, still tied to the chair with his hands cuffed.

“Now, where were we?”

Clint gulped. “I was just telling you that I came here to help.”

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend?” Natasha asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Something like that,” Clint answered. “I’m Clint.”

“Natasha.” She walked over to him, pulled a knife out of her boot and began to cut him free. “I guess it’s time to talk to my WitSec handler. I’m not equipped to take on men with automatics.”

Clint eyed the two bloody bodies lying on the once beautiful rug. She seemed pretty well-equipped to him.

“Wanna ride?” he asked.

She cocked her head thoughtfully at him.

“They probably know my car, so I could use yours. I’m driving.”

 

_St. Louis, Missouri: Witsec Building_

Natasha pulled into the WitSec lot, wondering why she was letting Clint, if that was truly his name, tag along. He had given in to her demand to drive without much of a fight, which spoke to some wisdom, but then spent valuable minutes checking to make sure his bow was okay.

“What does a grown man want with a bow?” she asked, in an attempt to draw him out. Tie some men to a chair, and they just clammed right up.

“It has sentimental value.” He scanned the area around him for potential threats, and finding nothing, got out of the car and walked around to the driver’s side to open the door for her.

Her lips quirked in amusement at the gesture.

“I didn’t peg you for the gentlemanly type,” she said.

“Well, I haven’t been much use so far. Seems the least I could do.”

As she walked towards the WitSec building, he positioned himself between her and the most likely place where a sniper would perch. He was really here to protect her.

She passed by her handler’s car, a Jaguar that Clint gave an appreciative eye to. Natasha was pretty sure the Marshal assigned to her cared more about his car than about his children, the way he carried on about it.

She had called ahead of time, and Marshal Williams, a surprisingly tough woman in her fifties, was there to escort them to a bland conference room. For refreshments it contained only an old coffee maker, generic coffee and Lipton teabags. Natasha managed not to sneer. Clint rushed to the coffee maker, she noted with amusement. He was happily drinking coffee that could double for road tar when her Marshal, Harry Thatcher, strode into the room, his mussed hair speaking to a rude awakening.

“Natalie, who is this?” Harry asked, looking suspiciously at Clint.

“My boyfriend. He was the one who rescued me!” Natasha exclaimed, eyes wide and innocent.

She noticed with approval that Clint managed to stifle his snort into his coffee. He stuck out his hand to Harry. The two men shook hands, and Natasha couldn’t help but compare them. They were both athletic, but that was where the similarity ended. Harry was taller, but Clint carried himself with a dangerous ease that made Natasha doubt whether her Marshal would last seconds in a fight with him. Not to mention, Clint was easier on the eyes.

“Clint. Nice to meet you.”

“How did you two meet?” Harry inquired.

He didn’t even try to be subtle about his suspicion of the other man. In a different situation Natasha might be annoyed, but she appreciated paranoia in a man who was tasked with ensuring her safety.

“We ran into each other on the street. Kept in touch ever since,” said Natasha, hoping to redirect Harry’s attention back to her.

Clint rubbed the back of his head where she had hit him. “Yeah. Natalie is kind of hard to forget about.”

“And you’ve known each other for how long?” Harry asked Clint, pointedly.

“Six months or so,” Clint lied, voice steady and his face carefully blank. Natasha was pleasantly surprised by his ability for deception. It was wonderful to work with someone competent, no matter how briefly.

“But I only told him about the witness protection program a few weeks ago,” Natalie added.

The lines around Harry’s eyes tightened as his suspicion of Clint kicked up a few notches.

“I take it you don’t want to relocate with Natasha?” Harry continued his interrogation.

“Relocate?” Clint did a good impression of a boyfriend out of his depth.

He looked at Natasha, real concern underlying his panicky demeanor. She nodded back; he could leave. She would be fine.

“Natalie will need to move to a new city and take on a new identity. As part of her deal, she can take spouses and children with her,” Harry explained to Clint, putting emphasis on the word “spouse.”

“Spouse? Nat, I think I’d better leave.”

Natasha bit her lip and blinked tears into her eye.

“Clint. These past few months have been amazing.”

Clint stepped into her tearful embrace.

“I’ll always remember you, Natalie.”

Harry cleared his throat, obviously annoyed by the displays of emotion.

“I’ll have Marshal Williams show you out,” he told Clint.

Harry escorted Clint to the door, where Marshal Williams was waiting. Natasha settled into the chair at the head of the table. The next few hours would be crucial in negotiating the best deal she could get, using the few choice tidbits of information she had kept for exactly this sort of situation. Maybe she could try for a house with a pool?


	4. Chapter 4

"It was Kitten's first full moon. When she saw it, she thought, there's a little bowl of milk in the sky. And she wanted it." – Kevin Henkes

_St. Louis, Missouri: Outside WitSec Building_

Clint walked out of the elevator doors, whistling. Although the back of his skull probably wouldn’t agree, he quite enjoyed having a name come up for a person who could rescue herself. Still, he would stick around in the shadows long enough to make sure she got out of St. Louis safely, then be on his way home. Witness Protection could do a better job than he could of protecting someone against the mob.

He walked by the flashy Jag he’d noticed earlier. In his younger and wilder days he might have taken it for a joy ride, but he settled for admiring the vehicle’s smooth lines. He was checking out the leather upholstery when his phone buzzed. Another message from his anonymous texter.

It read ' _Natasha Romanoff, Witness Protection, St. Louis_.'

Clint might not have been the sharpest arrow in the quiver, but his anonymous texter would not have sent him the message unless he needed to be more involved. He didn’t know how his mysterious puppet master knew so much, but whenever he needed it, he or she would give him a nudge, based on incredibly accurate intel.

He sighed in resignation and pressed the button to go back up to WitSec. By the time he was escorted back into the room, Natasha was elbow deep in paperwork.

“What are you doing here?” Natasha’s marshal asked, something like jealousy in his tone.

Clint didn’t blame the man for being attracted to Natasha, but he didn’t have time to tiptoe around his insecurities.

“I decided that I couldn’t live without you, Natalie,” Clint said, stressing the _live_ , and hoping she would catch on that it was a matter of life and death.

He needn’t have worried; she picked up on the cue instantly.

“Oh, Clint,” Natasha sighed. “I always hoped you’d say that.”

She pushed her chair back from the table and rushed towards him, brown hair flying behind her.

Clint did his best impression of a love-struck dolt, grabbing her by the waist and twirling her around. She matched the dramatic gesture by placing her arms over his shoulder and giving him an enthusiastic kiss, which he returned with a fervor that was not entirely feigned.

Marshal Whatshisname cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll go get the paperwork. We will move you to a new city in the morning.”

Natasha broke the kiss, and stage whispered in his ear, “I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

From behind him, he could hear Marshal Williams sniffle, a testament to Natasha's performance since he hadn't seen the woman crack a smile.

“We’ll set you up in a hotel, and relocate you within seventy-two hours,” Marshal Whathisname promised, without enthusiasm.

Clint looked down at the pile of paper that awaited him and managed to suppress a shudder. He hoped it was a nice hotel.

 

_St. Louis, Missouri: Four Seasons_

Natasha opened the door to the hotel room, bone tired. It was almost three in the morning, and she was ready to hit the hay. She hoped the Russian mob would have the politeness to wait at least until noon if it wanted to take another shot at her, but she doubted she’d be that lucky.

Clint followed her into the room and closed the curtains before he flicked on the lights. He was still watching for any threats, taking in all the potential hiding places for an assassin. Natasha waited for him to finish examining the room, taking the opportunity to admire the snug fit of his jeans, before starting her own search. There were no Russian assassins lurking in the shower, or any obvious bugs, but that didn’t mean she was safe.

Clint was already using the spare sheets he’d found in a cupboard to set up a sleeping space for himself on the couch. “The Four Seasons? How nice of a deal did you negotiate?” he asked, genuine appreciation in his tone.

Natasha smirked, remembering the outmatched FBI negotiator who had tried to get her to settle for a small apartment and no monetary compensation. Poor kid.

“Why did you really come back?” She wasn’t going to try a complex interrogation, not when she thought he would tell her everything anyway.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Don’t fuck with me, Clint.” She walked towards him, until she was close enough to see him sweat.

He toppled backwards onto the half made up sofa. “That depends. Your name is Natasha Romanoff?”

She shifted her left foot minutely, checking the position of the stiletto hidden in her boot. He caught the movement.

“I got another text. It told me a Natasha Romanoff was in danger. Unless I miss my guess, that’s you.”

“Clint, you know I can take care of myself.”

“Yes, but watching you do it is so much fun.” Clint settled back into the couch, deliberately putting himself into a poor defensive position. He grinned up at her. “I’ll stick around until you’re not in danger anymore. Then it will be like I was never here.”

Natasha didn’t quite believe in a world where mysterious strangers ran around saving people at an anonymous puppet-master’s request, but she was tired and lonely, and she hadn’t had real human contact in so long.

“In that case.” Natasha reached out her hands, and pulled Clint up off the couch. “Let’s go to bed.”

Clint rose to his feet, then promptly tripped over them. Natasha couldn’t hold back a laugh. Clint looked at her like a wounded puppy, which made her laugh even more. She dragged him towards the king-sized bed, still snickering.


	5. Chapter 5

“Hold fast to dreams  
For if dreams die  
Life is a broken-winged bird  
That cannot fly.” - Langston Hughes

_St. Louis, Missouri: Four Seasons Hotel Room_

The hotel phone rang, shaking him from his doze. The light coming through the hotel curtain was much too soft for it to be a decent hour. He closed his eyes again, hoping to get at least a few more hours of rest. He could quite happily lie in this bed for the rest of the winter.

Natasha destroyed his state of half sleep when she reached over him to answer the phone. He idly moved her hair aside to kiss his way down her neck. This was _definitely_ his favorite job so far.

She pushed him away, lessening the sting of rejection with a sleepy grin, then answered the phone.

“Hello.” Natasha spoke with a perfect British accent.

“Natasha, is Clint there?” Marshal Whatshisname asked, his voice tinny through the phone.

“Yes,” Natasha stated, reverting back to an American standard accent, which Clint realized was just as faked as the British. 

“It’s Clint. We ran his prints through the database. He’s a suspect in four different assassinations, under the alias Hawkeye. The Russians probably hired him.”

Clint froze at hearing his old moniker. Natasha raised an eyebrow at him, and he looked back, hoping she could see the truth in his eyes.

“Just tell him you’re leaving the room for coffee,” Whatshisname prattled on, oblivious. “I’m waiting for you in the lobby.”

“I’ll be there in ten.” Natasha answered, her eyes unreadable. She hung up the phone.

Clint tensed, waiting for Natasha’s reaction. Her body stayed relaxed, which was a good sign. “Hawkeye. Really? Did you come up with that yourself?”

“I’m not working for the mob,” he blurted out.

She put a finger to his lips before he could say any more. “I know. I checked your texts. Every name on that list is still alive.”

Clint had carefully scrubbed those texts from his phone. How had she accessed them? Unless his anonymous texter had somehow predicted her reading them before he checked his phone and sent them within the last few hours. The amount of prescience that would require gave him a headache.

“Well, I’m actually pretty good at my job, at least when the people I’m supposed to protect don’t knock me unconscious,” he joked.

He waited for her to speak. There was so much he didn’t know about this woman, her reactions, her thought processes. In a world full of easily solved people, she was an incredibly complex, intriguing puzzle. One he would have had more time with if it wasn’t for Marshal Cockblock.

“Well, Hawkeye. I have a plan, and I could use your help.” Natasha smiled at him.

 

_St. Louis, Missouri: Four Seasons Lobby_

Natasha rushed down the stairs to the lobby, tears running down her face, playing the part of a heartbroken young woman. Harry Thatcher waited next to the bell desk, looking like a concerned Marshal. Her act was better, she thought with a dismissive sneer that didn’t reach her face.

“Natasha, are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” she said, voice thick with contempt made to sound like unshed tears. “I can’t believe he’s an assassin. I thought he loved me.”

“It’s okay. I’m taking you to a new hotel.” Thatcher took her hand, and it took all of her willpower to not pull it away.

“Let’s go,” she said.

From the corner of her eye she could see Clint lurking in the stairwell. She hoped his surveillance skills were better than Thatcher’s skills at observation. In retrospect, she should have demanded a new Marshal when he’d fallen for her innocent flower act.

“Where are we heading?” she asked.

“You’ll see,” said Thatcher, already steering her towards his car.

He was quiet on the drive, and somehow didn’t notice Clint’s garish vehicle tailing them. She wondered if the marshal was distracted by his guilt, but even so, she felt no sympathy for him. They made their way downtown, before coming to a jolting stop in an alley next to a white van. Thatcher pulled a gun on her.

“How cliché,” Natasha said, raising her hands. She had been right; he was the mole.

Thatcher’s hands shook, but he kept the gun pointed at her head. “I’m sorry, Natasha.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, unamused.

“You don’t understand, they have something on me.”

Thatcher appeared to want to explain himself and gain absolution, but she was all out of mercy.

“Probably the fact that they helped you pay for this fancy car.” She slapped the gun out of his hands, and elbowed him in the face. A quick chop to the back of his head rendered him unconscious.

The click of the gun behind her had her raising her hands for the second time in as many minutes.

“Impressive, Natasha. But it won’t save you.”

She hadn’t dared to hope, but that voice was familiar. “Good morning, Ivan. You came all the way to see me? I’m honored.”

“I thought you would appreciate the poetry of it. Death by the same hands that killed your lover.”

“Thank you for your kindness,” Natasha said, just as an arrow flew from nowhere to pin Ivan’s gun hand to the car.

Ivan screamed for help, but the street around them remained free from passersby, just as Ivan had arranged.

“You really shouldn’t leave your goons unattended,” Natasha told Ivan. By now Clint would have taken them out.

Slowly, theatrically, she picked up Thatcher’s gun from where it had fallen in the car.

“Goodbye, Ivan.” She fired three shots, two in the chest, one in the head. Regulation for marshals against gunmen at close range.

He died with a gurgle, his last words unformed on his lips. She expected to feel victory, but all she felt was numb. It was over, she had her revenge, and all she wanted to do was wash the gunpowder off her hands.

She wiped her prints off the gun and put it in Thatcher’s hand. He would have a hard time explaining a missing witness and a dead mobster, although she wondered what the St. Louis P.D. would think of the arrow.

She looked up to the rooftop where Clint was hiding. He gave her a cheeky salute. She blew him a kiss in return, then ducked into a side alley. He had been the bright spot over the past twenty-four hours, but now she needed to disappear.


	6. Epilogue

“A story has no beginning or end: arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead.” - Graeme Greene

_St. Louis, Missouri – Alleyway_

Clint fired, knocking the gun out of the leader’s hands. He leveled a second arrow at the man, but Natasha had things in hand. A shiver went down his spine as she cold-bloodedly executed her enemy and then planted the gun on Marshal Whatshisname.

Natasha looked up at him, triumph in her eyes, and he gave her a salute, their job done. He could see regret flicker across her face, before she blew him a kiss and slipped into a side street.

She left devastation in her wake, with the blood from the leader’s corpse trickling towards the gutter and Marshal Whatshisname groaning his way to consciousness in the driver’s seat of his Jag. The knocked out goons lay strewn behind the van like dolls, courtesy of his tranquilizer arrows.

He rushed down the fire escape at the edge of the building, but by the time he had reached ground level, she had disappeared. So much for goodbyes. The blare of sirens approached, and he made himself scarce.

He wouldn’t forget her, but it was definitely time to go home. And to get a cup of coffee large enough to swim in on the way.

 

_St. Louis, Missouri – Safehouse_

Natasha threw a pair of old jeans into her backpack. Her one-bedroom safehouse had everything she needed to start over again, and she quickly stuffed the few other necessary items into her backpack. Clean underwear, a fake passport and a credit card. She was good to go, ready to leave the safehouse and its blank walls, this city and the bloody memories she had made here. Maybe she would try her luck on the West Coast.

Then, oddly, her new phone rang. She had just activated it, and literally no one had the number. She checked the phone, a shiny smartphone she had bought thanks to the generosity of the United States government, and saw she had received a text from a private number. It read: _someone needs your help_.


End file.
